the praying type
by Catalina Day
Summary: Tag to 1x12: Faith. An epiphany and an epic battle in just three small doses.


**Disclaimer:** Right now I own about three cough drops and some peanut butter cookies, but certainly not Supernatural or anything related to it. That's all on the Kripkeeper and friends.

**A/N:** Okay, so I wrote this quite a while ago, but I really wanted to post something. So, here it is in all of it's (mostly) unedited glory! I think this might qualify as fail!crack, but I really won't know until someone leaves a review. XD

Please let it be noted that I mean no disrespect to people of any religion. Dean just happens to be a really big skeptic, as we all know. ;)

**Summary:** Tag to 1x12: Faith. An epiphany and an epic battle in just three small doses.

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**the praying type**

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**i. the praying type**

It was true, what Dean said; he wasn't the praying type. Despite the things they saw almost every day... No, not despite, because of. Because of what they saw (and fought) damn near every day, he couldn't bring himself to believe. He couldn't take that leap, because of the nothing stretching out before him that was sure to not catch him, and instead let him fall into an endless abyss.

Because really, what kind of benevolent god would let people die so horrifically, and in the ways he himself had, at times, witnessed? And then there was his mother, of course. How could God do this to her? That question was put to bed long ago, under his pillow with the knife. The only other options were a vengeful god or a stupid god, neither of which he really wanted to believe in.

The truth was that God wasn't really around to do anything for anyone, and revenge was something his dad wanted. Was something Sammy wanted now, too. All he wanted was to do his job, save people, and maybe have a warm bed to sleep in at night. Sure, knowing what had really happened to his mom would be a relief, but it would also be scary as hell, and he didn't know if that was a fear that he could face just yet.

Mostly he didn't believe because he could see what the imaginary sky-friend did to people, good people. People who were _trying_ to be good. Like Sue Anne; misguided, and more sad than despicable. She clutched that cross to her chest like it was her saving grace, her faith staining her hands with blood that could never be washed away.

But for Layla, he thought, faith was maybe different. It wasn't about punishing or being punished. Had less to do with God hovering over her and whispering antiquated ideas of morality into her ear, more to do with believing that, in the end, everything would be okay. Not that it would work out great for everyone. Dean wouldn't live forever with Sammy and their dad, hunting bad things and always winning. But it would be _okay_ for them, because things worked out the way they did, and you could just take it for what it was and be happy about it while you had it.

And that, he thought as he stared at the door she had closed minutes ago, _that_ was something worth praying for.

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**ii. the epic battle (aka: i want my dollar bill back, but the soda machine is haunted)**

Sam grinned to himself a little as he walked toward the glowing monument to hyper, over-caffeinated children everywhere. Sometimes Dean was too easy to read. And it wasn't a shock to him; they'd both had a bad tendency of wearing their hearts on their sleeves. Okay, so it was usually Sam. But Dean let on more than he knew, and Sam wasn't stupid.

Years of being taught to observe every single thing around him hadn't gone to waste, he just chose not to comment on every little thing he saw.

Sighing, he pulled a crinkled dollar bill from his pocket, smoothing it out as best he could on the slightly curved front of the machine. Granted, he wasn't sure _exactly_ what was bugging Dean, but he knew it had something to do with Layla. Well, there was Layla... but something else, too. Something deeper, maybe. Deeper than a person dying so that he could live. Maybe just as deep as him dying so that Layla...

A frustrated grunt forced itself from his mouth as he tugged at the dollar bill in the slot. The light was blinking, and the soda machine was engaged in some sort of strange ritual in which it would try to accept the money, but ultimately rejected it. But then, no, wait! It wanted it again... until it didn't.

Had it not been for Sam's growing annoyance, he might've been able to find something meaningful in this (because that was just how Sam was; overly analytical to a fault, he could invariably find meaning in anything), but right now he really did just want a god-damned Coke. And after all this shit; his brother almost dying, his girlfriend _really_ dying, his dad off who knew where doing who knew what that could probably get him killed, and then not to mention his mother _and_ the entirety of his childhood... After his whole shitty life, didn't he at least deserve a soda?

No, the soda machine decided as it spit out half of his dollar bill and proceeded to swallow the rest; no, he did not deserve a soda. He kicked the machine, because it made him feel better. And then, as soon as sparks started coming from the cursed thing, he turned right back the way he had come.

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**iii. live life, laughing out loud**

When Sam opened the door, he was met with the most surprising and concerning thing he had ever seen in his life: Dean was praying. The whole nine yards. Kneeling at the bedside, hands clasped together, head bent.

"You're not dying again, are you?"

At this Dean's head shot up, the look of shock on his face gone after a second. The first word out of his mouth was "Shaddup" quickly followed by a nod in the general direction of Sam's hand, which was still gripping the torn dollar bill, and then "You get accosted by a really unambitious mugger, or somethin'?" And then came the odd staring at the other object Sam had acquired since opening the door (and, of course, the signature smirk); a carton of salt.

Sam looked at both of his hands, and then back at Dean.

He left the room mumbling something about a haunted soda machine, leaving Dean to sit back on the shitty old carpet, tears of mirth running down his face as he clutched hopelessly at his sides.


End file.
